


Demons (and Nutella)

by mezzorellasticks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domesticity, Eventual Johnlock, Fluff, Original Character - Freeform, i know i’m sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzorellasticks/pseuds/mezzorellasticks
Summary: John Watson is still mourning Sherlock Holmes, Kendal Evans just began the probably life-long process of mourning her father. Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead and finds the two navigating the world together, and wastes no time in joining them. Shenanigans ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

The crisp smell of fresh rain filled Kendal’s lungs. She could feel her lower lip trembling.

“There are no words when such a drastic loss takes place so suddenly...”

Kendal felt eyes on her. She was used to it, she had been treated as the mourner-in-chief for almost two weeks, now. It was wearing. All of these people who had gathered to mourn were gazing at her with pitying eyes, feeling so very sorry for the little girl who had lost so much.

She forced herself to look ahead at the shrine. A picture of herself and another man was surrounded by white flowers. Funeral flowers. She looked at that version of herself, that happy little girl with that wide smile. She looked at the man’s photographed blue eyes, the only blue in the world that was exactly like hers.

Hey, dad. She said weakly. I hope you’re watching all of this noise.

Something rose up in the back of her throat. She took a sharp, sudden breath and choked on the exhale. She knew that she was going to cry and that no one needed to see or hear that. All of the heads were turned forward now, looking at Kyle as he tried to preach words of comfort and strength.

Even though she was the guest of honor, it was easy to slip away.

She found a bench beneath a flowered arch far enough away from where her father was going to be buried. That was where she sat down and allowed herself to have her tears.

She had gotten better at crying as quietly as possible in the last few weeks. She knew to keep one hand pressed over her mouth to muffle the sobs, to duck her head enough so that her hair covered her face. If anyone looked directly at her, they would know she was upset, but they would also know that they should leave her alone.

Kendal felt someone sit down beside her. She felt an arm snake around her shoulders. Her head hit someone’s chest.

“It’s okay,” Victor said, circling his arms around her so that he was holding her completely. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Kendal whimpered. “It’s not okay.”

“I know,” Her friend said softly. “I know it’s not okay. I just thought you might believe it if I told you.”

Kendal laughed. They had a good enough view of the funeral party from their bench. Kyle appeared to be crying now, so did most of her father’s coworkers and his boss. So many people had shown up, even the lady who made her father’s coffee (and Kendal’s chai) every morning.

There was one almost-unfamiliar face in the audience that Kendal’s gaze fell to.

“You don’t have to go with him, you know.” Victor reminded her. 

“I know.” Kendal sighed. “But I...I do have to. You know why.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“He’s my godfather.”

“You only met him two weeks ago.”

“But...but dad wanted him to look after me. He trusts him, and so do I.”

Victor shook his head. Kendal had been talking like this often in the last few weeks, sounding like she was all grown up instead of almost thirteen. He supposed she had had to do lots of growing up recently.

But that didn’t mean letting a complete stranger take her in. Especially one who used to run around with Sherlock Holmes.

Kendal felt her brow furrow. She nuzzled against Victor’s chest and closed her wet eyes. 

You can do this. She told herself. You can do this.

Of course, she hadn’t thought that she could do this, whatever this was, until a few days ago. She hadn’t even considered trying.

But she had made her decision. And Kendal, stubborn as a mule, always stuck with her decisions once she made them, regardless of the consequences.

It drove her father crazy.

But he would have understood this decision and probably would have supported her. When she was feeling vain, she dared to think that he would be proud of her.

In roughly an hour, Kendal Evans would be placed in the care and keeping of Dr. John Watson, her legal godfather, for the foreseeable future.

She had made a list in her head of reasons why she had made this decision, why she wasn’t just staying with someone who knew her and loved her, already. Why make this lonely army doctor love her enough to keep her around?

Kendal went through the list in her head. Each mental bullet point was a potential solution and why it absolutely would not work.

1\. Move in with Victor and his family. His parents, especially his mother, already loved her. But the Jacobs had an eleven-year-old daughter who needed a proper upbringing, and the thirteen-year-old who happened to be sitting beside her would suffer, though bravely and silently, if she were a constant in that house. Not to mention what it would do to their friendship. Also, they had not offered to take her in, not directly, anyway. She was sure that if she had asked, if anyone had asked, they would have in a heartbeat. 

2\. Move in with Amy, her best female friend. Amy’s situation was almost similar to Victor’s. Amy had an older sister who probably didn’t want a mopey, probably crying babydoll hanging around. And Mrs. Lake, in all of her recently-divorced youth and beauty, was too wrapped up in her career to even give Amy very much attention. Not to mention what it would do to her friendship with Amy. Also, they had not offered to take her in.

3\. Be Kyle’s carry-on until she turned eighteen. This was by far the most repulsive, but probably smartest possibility. Kyle was a businessman (Kendal never really bothered finding out what he actually did or what he sold or whether or not he was an axe-murderer; he was her dad’s best friend and that had been enough explanation for her entire life) who traveled constantly. Kendal knew that Kyle was fond of her, but she also knew that most of that fondness came from love of her dad. She would always be in Kyle’s debt; he had been the one to sort through all of the legal mumbo-jumbo and explain her financial situation (Kendal had every quid her father had ever made or inherited, but she could barely touch it until she was an adult) to her once her father passed away, and he had been the first to hug her tight while she tried to wrap her head around the worst news she had ever received. But constantly being at his side, probably slowing him down, was a poor way to repay him. And if he ever grew enough balls or grew mean enough to tell her that she was a liability, he would probably send her to some boarding school, which would make her feel like a true orphan. But being at a boarding school would mean being away from Victor and Amy and Oliver (whom she had not even considered moving in with. They had four children, for Christ’s sake) and whatever happened, she could not lose them. She could not bear to be away from them for any length of time. It just wasn’t something she was capable of.  
4.  
So that left her here, on this garden bench, feeling the cold of the rain seep through her funeral dress, knowing that she would be making a new home in 221B, Baker Street very, very soon.

“This sucks.” Kendal said.

“This sucks.” Victor echoed.

A few meters away, John Watson was trying to look away from Kendal Evans, but it was like trying to tear his eyes away from devastation.

John was very familiar with devastation. He had been to war and come home to one. Devastation haunted his dreams at night. Devastation looked like short glasses littering the kitchen counter and unopened letters and a violin on the mantle and too many tears to count and no please don’t be dead Sherlock please don’t be dead don’t go don’t leave me please

This devastation was different. It had long, straight brown hair and a frown and a voice that sounded like the saddest song he had ever heard and large blue eyes that almost looked like William’s.

He supposed that if Kendal were happy, her eyes would be just like her father’s. But Kendal wasn’t happy. Kendal was devastated, and he realized that from the first moment he saw her.

He wasn’t sure what to expect when Kyle Burke, someone who had called him about his duties (he had literally used that word) to his late friend.

John had tried to do just that: fulfill his purely ceremonious duties, tell Kendal what a stand-up chap her father had been, possibly attend the funeral, and go on. 

Everything that happened afterward surprised him. He didn’t expect to see a reflection of himself sitting right there in William’s living room, he didn’t expect his heart to open and break all at once the second that his reflection started talking. 

And, in a way, he didn’t expect his own grief to lessen, just the least little bit, as he talked to her more. He didn’t expect himself to eat more often when he gently, but unmistakably firmly, told Kendal to eat something. He didn’t expect to want to talk to her about anything but their dead loved ones.

Then again, he certainly didn’t expect her to ask him to fulfill his duties as a godfather. And he hadn’t expected himself to accept. 221B was far from the perfect home for a child, he was far from an ideal caretaker, but dammit, Kendal needed him.

And, God help him, he needed her. 

 

221B Baker Street felt like a coffin. 

Which, Kendal supposed, made it perfect.

She had visited Baker Street before, just briefly, on the afternoon that she told Kyle that she wanted to stay with Dr. Watson.

Kyle himself was standing behind her now, still in his black suit from the funeral. He looked about as out of place as she felt in this shabby flat in the middle of London. He and Victor, holding her bags and boxes of things, would never look like they belonged here. The only thing that looked natural was Dr. Watson, who was behind them, looking lost in his natural habitat.

“Alright, Miss Kendal.” Kyle said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Where to?”

“Down the hall.” Kendal informed him. He and Victor followed her down the hallway to her new bedroom where they sat down her luggage. Packing up her life had been one of the hardest things she had ever had to do. She hoped unpacking would be easier.

Mostly, she hoped that her possessions would brighten up the room a touch.

“This is nice.” Victor said. Kendal knew that he was lying through his teeth and loved him all the more for trying.

“Do you need me to help you unpack?” Kyle asked.

“No, don’t worry about that.” Kendal said with a very forced smile. “You’ve got that train to catch.”

Kyle glanced down at his watch. “So I do.” He down at her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not too late, you know. We can still arrange something.”

Kendal shook her head. “I’ll be fine here. I know I will be.”

Kyle smiled. “You’re just like your dad.” He stooped down to hug his best friend’s daughter. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” Kendal promised. 

“I’ll see you soon.” He said. Kendal watched him leave.

“You know, he’s right.” Victor said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” Kendal said with an air of finality. “I just...I know that I’ll be good, here. I know that this is the right thing to do.”

Victor was the next to pull her into his arms.

“You’re brave.” He told her.

“I’m trying to be.” She said back.

Victor finally released her and took a deep breath.

“I’ll see you at school.” He said.

“I’ll see you at school.” Kendal said.

Then she was alone in this new room.

Alone in this new flat. Alone in this new world.

She took a deep breath and sat down on the bare bed. It was a nice room, she realized as she glanced around. There were some windows and walls and some furniture. That was all she needed, after all.

A knock on the half-opened door brought her attention away from the walls.

“You okay?” John asked, entering the bedroom that didn’t feel like hers.

“Yeah,” She lied. “Yeah, I’m...I’m fine. I just thought I would...get settled in.”

John nodded his head. “Alright. If you need anything, just ask.”

Kendal nodded her head. “Alright. Thank you.”

She was thankful that he didn’t hover.

She knelt before one of the boxes and lifted the lid. All of her books stared back at her. Kendal loved books. She took them from the box by the handful and transported them to the bookshelf, arranging them by color. A select handful went to the bedside table. 

Next was her clothes. Kendal knew that she had more clothes than anyone would ever need, but a budding fashionista needed to be well-dressed. 

Kendal placed her jeans (skinny, mostly high-waisted with more buttons than necessary) and skirts (black, skater) in the bottom drawer of the dresser, neatly laying them beside one another. In the drawer above them, she placed her shirts. She was surprised at the number of black shirts she had acquired. Mourning clothes before she was mourning. Above those were her socks and underwear. There was a surprising lack of black articles among them, she noticed.

She glanced at her dresses, blouses, and sweaters and made a mental note to ask John about a place to hang them up. Maybe she would get around to asking him about that in four or five years when this place felt like home. For now, she carefully put them in the drawer beside her shirts.

She glanced over at the naked bed and knew what had to come next. She was glad, at the very least, that it was a queen, just like her bed at home. It saved her from buying new sheets. Kendal was very particular about sheets and realized how much she loved her own as she spread them across this new bed.

She resisted the urge to bury her face in the soft blue material and inhale as much of the past as she could. Eventually, everything in this room would smell like something completely new. Maybe by that time, she would hurt less.

She hoped so, anyway.

Kendal placed her blankets and comforter (she got cold easily, especially at night) on top of her sheets and arranged her pillows on top of those.

After placing her makeup, curling irons, hair brush, and headbands (Kendal had been looking for ways to dress hair for years. It was a thankless task; there was no way to dress up hair that was both brown and straight) on the vanity, there was only one box left.

Kendal summoned her bravery and looked inside. Three framed pictures, a bouquet of dried roses, and her jewelry box stared back at her. 

The sentiment box. 

She lifted the first picture out of the box and looked at it. It featured Victor and herself after last year’s school musical. They both had ensemble roles, but it had been all kinds of fun and had convinced Mrs. Granger and Mr. LePort to let them take AMT this year. They owed so much to that show. She smiled and put that one on the vanity, right next to her hairbrush.

Next was a picture of Amy, Oliver, Victor and herself after Amy’s dance recital. Amy had danced beautifully that night and they had all told her so for hours afterwards. She put that one on top of the bookshelf.

With a heavy heart, she looked at the last one. Of course it was of her father. Of course they were together, of course they were happy, of course it would never be like that again.

Kendal blinked tears out of her eyes and set it on the bedside table. The roses and her jewelry box went on top of the dresser.

Kendal looked around this new room. She had to admit, it looked much better now, like she could live there-

Wait.

Oh, God. 

Oh no.

“John!” Kendal found herself yelling on her way out of the room. She met him in the middle of the hallway and nearly collided into him.

“Kendal, what’s wrong?” He asked.

“Did we leave my guitar in the living room?” She asked. She could feel panic rising in her voice.

“No, it’s not...” He glanced down the hall.

“Oh, dear.” Kendal breathed. “Oh, dear.”

“Wait, what’s wrong?” John asked.

“I think we left my guitar at-” Kendal stopped herself from saying home. That wasn’t home anymore. “at the old house.”

“Oh.” John seemed to realize how important that was before she could tell him.

Kendal could see her guitar case in the foyer of her house, too. She was supposed to take it and put it in the trunk of Kyle’s car, but she had been so caught up in saying her goodbyes that she had just forgotten.

Kendal felt her lips trembling. She blinked her eyes rapidly, she would not cry over one of her own mistakes, not in front of this man who didn’t love her yet.

“Get your jacket,” John said. “We’ll go get it.”

“But it’ll probably be locked.” Kendal said. She didn’t own the house anymore, after all.

“It’s worth a try. Come on, let’s go.”

Kendal felt a ghost of a smile cross her face. She went to fetch her jacket.

 

John Watson hadn’t moved the violin on his mantle since Sherlock had died. Everything else had been donated or put away, but every time he tried to move his detective’s beloved instrument, his nerve failed him. He felt a connection to the violin, one he couldn’t quite explain.

So naturally, once Kendal, who had only been in a citizen of 221B for an hour, came to him in a panic about the loss of her guitar, he was willing to do anything to reunite her with her instrument.

So here they were. Riding in a cab to the late William Evans’ home, which he had shared with his daughter until very recently.

William and Kendal had lived outside of London, closer to Kendal’s school. He had expressed concerns about her getting to class on time every day; she had assured him that finding a cab or taking a bus there and back would be fairly simple. John hadn’t thought to argue, possibly because he hadn’t had any better ideas.

Kendal herself was sitting beside him. Her hands were folded in her lap, her blue eyes stared straight ahead. Her red pea coat stood out against the black of her funeral dress. John looked down; he was still dressed for the funeral, too.

The cab stopped. He noticed Kendal taking a deep breath beside him. He knew that this short journey from the cab to her old doorstep would be a difficult one. An overpowering urge to hold her, to let her know that she wasn’t alone and that they could fix the devastation together, nearly overtook him, but he stopped himself. It was too soon.

“John?” Kendal was already outside, standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him. John stepped out of the cab and joined her.

“It looks empty, still.” She said. “Granted, I don’t think anyone’s made any offers quite yet.”

John wanted to laugh, but didn’t. He just walked up the front steps with his goddaughter and stopped at the door.

Goddaughter.

What a ridiculous term. It implied a closeness that he and Kendal didn’t have. It reminded him of a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then.

Then both of their worlds overturned, and here he was. With his goddaughter.

“Well, it’s locked.” Kendal sighed. “Kyle must have when we left.”

“Do you still have your house key?” John asked.

She shook her head. “No, I gave that to him, too.”

“Alright, then we’ll find Kyle and get the key.”

“Kyle’s on a train bound for Dublin right now.” Kendal said. “He has a conference call in about an hour.”

“Oh.”

Kendal shrugged. The gesture looked like it required a lot of effort. “It’s fine. We’ll...we’ll probably figure something out.”

The sun was setting. The shadows it cast made it difficult to examine Kendal’s expression, but John was almost sure that he saw tears shining in her eyes.

“We’ll figure something out.” He promised her. She nodded her head. 

“And...thanks. For like, you know. Doing this.” Kendal said. There were certainly tears in her voice.

“My pleasure.” John told her. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

A few hours later, Kendal bade him goodnight and went to her new room for the first time. John was sure that she would cry herself to sleep.

He knew that there was no comfort for her in a time like this. She had lost the biggest piece of her heart and there was no one to fill that void.

And she had left her guitar at the home that wasn’t hers anymore. John knew that everyone had their favorite places to take refuge. Harry liked booze, he liked danger, and Kendal obviously favored music, just like her father had.

He glanced at the violin on the mantle.

Be brave. He told himself. Be a solider. Be a soldier for Kendal.

John took out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts, looking for a number he hadn’t called in almost two years.

He answered after two rings.

“Dr. Watson,” A cold, condescending voice said on the other end. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

“I need a favor,” He said, cutting right to the chase. “Mycroft.”

 

When Kendal woke up, she didn’t know where she was.

Her arms were wrapped around her legs, pulled close to her chest. She wondered for a moment if she had been kidnapped and had assumed that position for her own protection.

Then she looked around and remembered.

She had kidnapped herself.

She glanced at her alarm clock. It was high time she started her day.

“First day.” She told herself on her way to her dresser. “First day. You can do this.”

She certainly hoped so, anyway.

It’s not like anything can get any worse. She figured as she found jeans and a shirt and pulled them on.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection and sighed.

That could maybe get better. She admitted, pulling her hair into a ponytail.

Kendal wished she were braver. It shouldn’t take this much bravery to walk into a different room in her own home.

Home. She reminded herself as she walked into the living room.

John Watson (who was her godfather, as she constantly had to remind herself) was sitting in one of the armchairs already.

“Good morning,” She said. Her smile was just as forced as it was the day before.

“Good morning. Did you sleep okay?” He asked.

You’re trying, bless you. Kendal found herself thinking fondly.

“Yeah, I slept fine.” She answered.

“Good...do you want tea? Or coffee, maybe?”

“Tea sounds fine, but I can make that-” Something caught her eye on her way to the kitchen. “John?” She asked.

“Kendal?”

“Is that...”

There was a guitar case, her guitar case, in the middle of the living room, hidden between the two armchairs.

“Is that...that’s my guitar!”

John nodded his head. He was almost smiling. Kendal slid it to the center of the room and knelt beside it, her gaze implying that it was her most treasured possession.

“How did you manage to find it?” She asked. She was smiling, and it was real this time.

“I called in a few favors.” was his vague answer.

“This is so sweet of you, really, thank you-”

She fell silent as soon as she opened the case.

This was...

No, this was...

John noticed the abrupt change in her expression and knelt on the other side of the case.

“Something wrong?” He asked.

“I...I, uh...” Kendal tried to answer. All of the moisture that was supposed to be in her mouth was gone. “This is my dad’s guitar.” 

John looked down and silently cursed Mycroft. He already knew everything about Kendal and her arrangements before he even called, he had a team walking into an abandoned house to retrieve a guitar within five minutes, but he couldn’t have been bothered to grab the right one?

“Oh, Kendal.” John said. “Kendal, I’m sorry-”

Kendal shook her head. “No, no, don’t be...don’t be sorry.” She looked up at at him. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you.”

John nodded and, acting completely on an instinctive whim, reached forward and brushed a soft strand of hair behind his goddaughter’s ear.

“It was my pleasure.” He said. “So, tea?”

Kendal nodded her head and blinked her tears out of her eyes.

“Tea sounds great.”


	2. Chapter 2

   Four days after Kendal’s father’s funeral, she had an audition.

   “The Spring musical.” She announced, slamming an audition poster down on the lunch table. “I very nearly forgot.”

   Amy peered over her sandwich at the flyer. “ _Once Upon a Mattress_. Not an awful show. Not enough dancing.”

   “You have your song, don’t you?” Oliver asked. “Also, why aren’t you eating?”

   “Not hungry. And yes.” Kendal said, sitting down. “I have a song. I just haven’t been...well, focussing.”

   There was a brief pause.

   “How’s John?” Oliver asked, breaking the silence.

   Kendal leaned back in her chair and looked up at the sky. Every day of the Spring, she and her three friends had lunch on balcony by the science classroom. They hadn’t really asked last year, but Kendal felt like they wouldn’t have told her “no” this year. No one was in the mood to deny her anything.

   “John’s fine.” She said, wrapping her sweater around her torso like a blanket. “He’s adjusting.”

   She saw Amy’s brow furrow and was glad that she didn’t press the issue.

   “What about you, V?” She asked. “Are you ready for auditions?”

   “Hopefully.” Victor answered. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

   “Your acting is impeccable.” Oliver said dryly.

   The school bell rang.

   “AMT.” Kendal said, picking up her bag. “Let’s do this. Let’s go sing.”

   Kendal was already down the hall when Amy leaned towards Victor.

   “She’s not eating.” She whispered.

   “She’s mourning.” Oliver reminded her. Amy’s brown eyes rolled.

   “That doesn’t mean we let her starve.”

   “We’re going to be late.” Victor said. Amy followed him and Oliver down the hall.

   “Are you not at all worried for her?” She asked. This time, Victor rolled his eyes.

   “She’s my best friend.” was all he said.

   “She’s ours, too.” Amy said back. They stopped in the music hallway. The orchestra and choir rooms were right beside each other. When either group was quiet, they could hear the other. Oliver and Amy went to orchestra, Victor went to AMT.

   Kendal was sitting in her normal seat, scribbling something in her notebook. There was something about Kendal, wearing her school uniform (Victor wasn’t sure why their public junior high school had elected to require uniforms. His dad said it was something about tradition. He didn’t mind, especially since the “uniform” was just a white button-up along with a tie or scarf of the school’s colors. Kendal, he noticed, tended to wear her shirt with high-waisted pants in the winter and skirts in the Spring, sometimes with black knee-socks, which made him believe that Kendal maybe liked looking like she had a uniform) and with her hair held back by a blue headband, that seemed nice. It seemed normal. It seemed like everything was back to normal.

   Then he looked closer. At the bags under her eyes and the hollowness of her face and her frown. Kendal loved to smile and now she almost never did.

   Victor felt his stomach twist. Kendal looked up and saw him and motioned for him to sit beside her. He complied.

   “You’re very nearly late.” She said, glancing at the clock.

   “Emphasis on the ‘nearly.’” He said. “Mum’s making lasagna tonight. Do you want to come have dinner after auditions?”

   Kendal smiled. He missed that smile.

   “Sure.” She said.

   Ms. Granger called class to order. Victor got out his notebook.

  
     
   Blue shampoo.

   John took the almost-empty bottle from the shower and looked at it.

   The color was even brighter up close.

   It smelled like coconut, or some heavily modified version of a coconut.

   He smiled. Sherlock used to leave severed limbs and chemical mishaps around the house. He knew that Kendal wasn’t meaning to, but she was leaving traces of her existence around the flat already.

   Like blue shampoo and purple conditioner (the bottle was purple, anyway) and deep-pore acne cleanser and soap that smelled like lavender, all in a separate shelf in the shower.

   “John?”

   John set the shampoo down and left the bathroom.

   “Don’t you have to be at the clinic?” Mrs. Hudson asked, barely taking her eyes off of the coffee table she was dusting.

   “Not for a while.” John said.

   “Oh, dear...” Mrs. Hudson said. “Kendal left her history notes.”

   John walked to the coffee table. Surely enough, notes about the industrial revolution, written in the twirly cursive only a twelve-year-old could produce, were sitting on the coffee table.

   “I hope she didn’t need those.” Mrs. Hudson mused. “She has a quiz tomorrow.”

   “She does?” John asked.

   “She told me yesterday when we had tea, and then she showed me her audition song for the Spring musical-”

   “Kendal sings?”

   Mrs. Hudson nodded. “That advanced music class she’s been taking takes the whole thing very seriously. I hope she’s not too worried, her audition is today.”

   “Advanced music...” John felt his voice die down to a whisper. He felt inferior, sitting here in this living room, knowing nothing about the child who also lived here, aside from her preference to neon-colored shampoo.

   His landlady knew more about her than he did. All he knew about Kendal was her dad.

   He furrowed his brow. He and Kendal talked. He and Kendal talked every day. They had talked that morning. Kendal had said “good morning” and he had said “good morning” then she had eaten a bowl of cereal and said she had slept “just fine, really,” and then said goodbye...

   “She’s still adjusting, you know, poor thing.” Mrs. Hudson went on, like she was reading this thoughts. “And I’m sure she’s just shy and a little frightened. It’s not your fault, of course, dear..” She said to him meaningfully. “She’s a very sweet little thing, really.”

   John nodded her head. He knew that much about Kendal, anyway.

   His thoughts turned back to the blinding bottle in the bathroom. It was almost empty.

   “I’m going to the shop,” He said, walking towards the door.

   “Alright, love.” Mrs. Hudson said, picking up her washcloth again. “Be safe.”

   John scoured the shelves of the grocery store for nearly ten minutes before he found Kendal’s shampoo, glowing between less bright products. He took two bottles off of the shelf. For some reason, that made him feel better. Like he was actually acting like a godfather.

 

  
     
   Ms. Granger and Mr. LePort had looked sad during her entire audition. That agitated Kendal. She stayed agitated through the cold readings they had her do and fought to stay demure and cast-able during their well-meaning inquiries. They asked her how she was, how she was holding up, how well she had done...

   Kendal felt sick at herself for being angry with them. They were just being kind, just looking out for her. The lasagna she ate for dinner was bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

   Victor’s parents had tried their best to act like everything was normal during dinner, but Kendal knew that nothing was normal.

   But it almost felt like it was.

   Which made everything much, much worse.

   Kendal knew that she was only upset because of one reason. And there was no remedy for that.

   The flat was dark and seemingly empty when she came home (it still felt wrong to call it that). She left her bag on one of the armchairs and went to the bathroom. She heard it fall on the floor, but didn’t go back to pick it up. Maybe she could stand in a hot shower and wash everything away. Wash herself away.

   She pulled back the shower curtain (still completely clothed. The shower was already starting to feel pointless) and stopped.

   She narrowed her gaze.

   There was a bottle of shampoo, her favorite coconut shampoo, sitting in a different place.

   A new bottle.

   Kendal felt her eyes fill with tears. She closed the shower curtain and tried to walk away.

   That was when she felt her knees hit the floor. She curled inwards, her arms wrapped around her torso, her forehead nearly touching the bathroom tiles. The tears came immediately. There was no steady progression from whimpering to crying to sobbing, she went straight to weeping. Kendal didn’t try to cry quietly; she was alone, there was no one who would try to comfort her.

   John had bought her new shampoo. She lived here, now. Her father was dead, dead and gone and so far away from her. Unreachable. Gone. Nothing left. Not a trace.

   Kendal was all that was left of William Evans, but there wasn’t much left of her. Here she was, keeled over on this bathroom floor, these choking, racking sobs shaking her weak torso.

   It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it was supposed to be like this.

 

  
   John nearly tripped over Kendal’s bag on his way inside the flat.

   That was when he noticed a sliver of light underneath the bathroom door.

   And the sound of someone crying very hard very quietly.

   John walked to the doorway. Kendal was there, on the bathroom floor, folded in on herself, weeping as he had wept so many times since the whole of his heart went away.

   Without even thinking, he knelt on the bathroom floor and grabbed her shaking shoulders, gently lifting her upwards.

   “It’s okay,” he murmured, pulling her towards him. Kendal was light and didn’t try to pull away. Her head slumped against his chest, her arms were still wrapped around her stomach. John adjusted her so that she was partially in his lap and ignored that voice in his head that said that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he was the wrong person to be doing this, that Kendal needed someone else. He wrapped Kendal in his arms and rested his chin on top of her head.

   She kept crying. John kept holding her, kept making these soft, soothing noises that didn’t sound like words. Somehow, one of his hands found her hair and started stroking her soft, dark tresses.

   “It’s okay.” He murmured. “It’s alright.”

   Nothing was alright. Nothing was alright in his world, and nothing was alright in Kendal’s.

   Kendal shifted slightly, resting her palms on his chest, pressing her cheek into the fabric of his sweater.

   When Sherlock passed away, when he threw himself off of that building and took himself away, John had wept. He wept while he tried to make tea, only one cup of tea, in the morning. He wept when he walked past his detective’s empty bedroom. He wept whenever a tabloid featuring Sherlock’s picture was delivered to the flat. For the longest time, to live meant to weep. All that time, he kept thinking, hoping, praying, that Sherlock would walk in the door, would pull him into his arms, and hold him. He would forgive him. He would instantly forgive him without a second thought. He would welcome him back readily, he would make this feel like home again.

   Sherlock never returned to hold John, so he continued to weep alone.

   John knew that he couldn’t allow Kendal to meet a similar fate.

   “It’s okay.” He said again. “It’s okay to cry.”

Kendal shook her head. Even if it wasn’t okay to cry, which she knew it was, nothing could have stopped her from doing so. Nothing else was okay. She wanted her dad. She missed her dad like she would miss her own heart, and she wanted to believe John when he said that it was okay, she wanted to take some kind of comfort in the refuge of these unfamiliar arms, but how could she? She was twelve and had already lost what was dearest to her. Did people come back from that?

She felt those arms tighten around her. She appreciated the gesture, if nothing else.

Eventually, Kendal hiccuped herself back to coherency and extracted herself from her godfather’s embrace. She let him ask how she was, let him tell her to breathe, let him help her feel a little more steady.

And, God bless him, he didn’t pry or ask invasive questions. He let her go to bed after.

The next morning, it was business as usual. Kendal ate her cereal and drank her tea and bade him goodbye.

“Thanks for the new shampoo, by the way.” She said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“What? Oh,” John remembered. “No problem. Have a good day, alright?”

“Alright.” Kendal said.

 

  
There was a cast list on the door of the AMT classroom. Kendal’s name appeared third on said list.

“Do you think they give roles to people just because they’re mourning?” Kendal asked Victor on their way to lunch later that day, after the initial joy of being cast had passed. “Because if so, you’re going to have to pick up my slack.”

“What slack?” Victor asked. Kendal laughed. “And congratulations, sweet Larken.”

“Same to you, Sir Harry.”

And as rehearsals wore on, Kendal wasn’t just grateful for her role, she was downright relieved. It felt almost normal to have a script in her hands again, to be lost in something other than her own thoughts.

The singing helped, too, but Kendal knew that that was bound to happen.

“I think you’re ready for tomorrow,” Mrs. Hudson said, sliding her script across the table to Kendal one day. This had become a routine for them; Kendal came back from rehearsal after school, Mrs. Hudson made her tea, and in exchange for drinking and eating a few biscuits, Mrs. Hudson would run lines with her.

“I think so, too. I’ve been off-book for a while, but I’m worried about what I’ll wind up doing when they expect us to be off-book tomorrow.”

“That’s a silly thing to worry about,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Kendal shrugged. “I know.”

“And you perform this in-“  
  
“Three weeks,” Kendal said promptly. “Technically, two weeks and three days. But who’s counting?”

“Have you told John? Does he have a ticket?”

Kendal busied herself by taking a long sip of tea. “I’ve told him about the show, yes. Not really about...you know, show times.”

“You should,” Mrs. Hudson said almost pointedly. “He’ll want to come.”  
  
Kendal wondered if that were true. Did John even like music? Even more, did he like musicals? Did he like her enough to want to see her in a musical?

She shrugged again. “Can we run the last scene again?”

Which they did, and Mrs. Hudson graciously allowed the subject to drop.

 

 

  
John took a deep breath and climbed the stairs up to 221B. The clinic hadn’t been easy on him today. On days like this, it felt like nothing was easy on him.

After what seemed like a long, winding journey, he reached the last step before the door, trying to focus on opening that and walking in, keeping his thoughts away from Afghanistan and Lestrade texting him about old times and pretty doctors who, on the off chance that they gave him a chance, would just wind up being as mundane as Sherlock wanted them to be-

Sherlock. Why did everything always boil back down to Sherlock?

John shook his head and sat down on the step, cradling his head in his hands.

_Some days her shape in the doorway_

_Will speak to me,_

_A bird’s wing on the window._

John’s head raised, a terrible ache running through his heart like a dagger. He used to be greeted by music, but it was from a violin, not from a voice. It was born at the hands of a brilliant and horrible man, not from a sweet pre-teen.

_Sometimes, I’ll hear when she’s sleeping,_

_Her fever dream,_

_A language on her face._

_I want your flowers like babies want God’s love,_

_And maybe as sure as tomorrow will come._

Kendal had a lovely voice, he realized. It was strong and full of life and had no trouble staying perfectly on pitch. In a way, Kendal’s music was like Sherlock’s; beautiful and sad and unpredictable, not to mention present whether he wanted it or not.

_Some days, like rain on the doorstep,_

_She’ll cover me with grace in all she offers._

_Sometimes, I like just to ask her what honest words_

_She can’t afford to say._

John took a deep breath and walked into the flat. Kendal’s bag was sitting in his armchair, and Kendal herself was at the kitchen counter, her back turned towards him, making tea.

“Hello,” he said. Kendal gasped and threw a hand over her heart.

“Cripes,” She said, laughing. “You scared me!”

John laughed. “I didn’t mean to. How was school?”

“School was fine,” she said. “Rehearsal...eh, it could use some work.”

“What happened?”

She wrinkled her nose and looked down at her tea. “The ensemble members keep stepping on each other’s lines. Victor and I are having trouble with our waltz because my costume is so cumbersome and- well, he keeps stepping on my hem and...eh, it could just use some work.”

“But you aren’t stepping on anything? Lines or otherwise?”

“I’ve been off-book for weeks,” Kendal said almost smugly.

“Ah. And this, you- this starts soon?”

“We open next week,” Kendal clarified, nodding her head.

“And- should I call and reserve a seat for that?”

Kendal took a long sip of tea. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She said finally.

“Of course I want to,” John said. “When should I come?”

“Opening night is always the best show,” Kendal informed him.

“Opening night it is, then.” John said. Kendal smiled for a reason she couldn’t quite place.

 

Kendal’s costume was itchy, and there was a full can of hairspray in her hair. Familiar pre-show butterflies were fluttering in her stomach.

“Apparently, there’s a good crowd out there. Lots of people,” Victor informed her backstage.

“Good,” Kendal said absentmindedly, trying to forget that John was in the audience, that this was the first real time that he would ever see her do what she loved to do.

“Alright, that’s places, ladies and gentlemen.” Ms. Granger called.

“Thank you, places.” Kendal, Victor, and the rest of the cast said.

“Break a leg,” Victor said.

“Break a leg.” Kendal replied.

And then she was onstage.

 

John wasn’t sure what he was expecting from Kendal’s show. The first thought that struck him, as soon as Kendal’s conflict was introduced, was that this was a bold choice for a junior high show.

Then Kendal started singing, and there really was something about her, wearing a blue gown with her hair curled and a microphone subtly taped to her cheek, that pulled him into the performance itself. Kendal knew what to do, she knew how to perform.

And he stayed invested until she took her bow alongside Victor (he was sure that was Victor, her best friend, she had mentioned him time and time again) and as he made his way into the foyer, surprised at how eager he as to collect his performer and congratulate her.

Soon enough, she was making her way through the crowd, wearing a black skirt and Chuck Taylors with a tee shirt bearing the show’s name and showtimes. Victor was behind her, as were two adults he assumed were his parents.

“John,” Kendal said. There was mic tape residue on her right cheek. “You remember Victor, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. Well done, both of you.” He said, shaking Victor’s hand.

“And this is my mum and dad,” he said, introducing the pair behind them. Immediately, the woman pushed forward and smiled, showcasing perfect white teeth behind maroon lips.

“I’m Victor’s mother, we’ve known Kendal for years and years. Isn’t she something? Oh, you must be so proud of your daughter,” she gushed, taking one of his hands between both of her own.

“Oh, I am-“ John said, slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm.

“He’s not my father,” Kendal said almost sharply.

Victor’s mother’s expression changed, as if she realized her mistake.

“Of course I am,” John said. “She- she really is something, and of course. I am so proud of her. If you’d- if you’d excuse me. Kendal, you said you had a ride home?”

Kendal, her face white and her eyes wide, nodded her head. John tried to smile and left.

Kendal murmured something about leaving something backstage and left right after. Victor, after exchanging a meaningful look with his parents, followed her.

Surely enough, she was right where he thought she would be, sitting on the edge of the empty stage.

“I’m a bad person.” Kendal said.

   “You’re not a bad person.” Victor said immediately. “You’re a good person.”

   “Good people don’t hurt good people.”

   “Kendal-”

   She was shaking her head. “He’s not my father.”

   “You’re right, he isn’t.” Victor agreed. “I’m sorry mum said that, but I don’t think she meant anything by it-”

   “It’s not her fault.” Kendal said. “It’s all mine.”

   She sat on the edge of the stage and put her head in her hands.

   “What’s wrong with me, Victor? When are things going to be normal again?”

   Victor sat beside her. “I don’t know, Kendal. But you’re doing so well. You know, adapting. My parents were talking about it last night, how proud they are of you.”

   “I am a very skilled actress.” Kendal said.

   “It’s not just that and you know it.”

   Kendal was surprised by the firmness in his voice.

   “I know you’re both still hurting. You should still be hurting, and you probably will for a very long time.”

   “You’re not making me feel better.”

   “I’m sorry, Kendal. I really am. You’re not a bad person, but sometimes I don’t think you’re very fair to him.”

   “What is that supposed-”

   “Were you even going to tell him about this performance, or did he ask you? Or see a poster?”

   “I- well, probably not. I just didn’t want to bother him.”

   “Did it occur to you that maybe he would want to be bothered by this? Maybe he wants to be a part of your life, Kendal. You’re his goddaughter, for God’s sake.”

   Kendal was silent.

   “Look, he loves you. And you love him, too. I’m not saying you have to like, call him dad or anything, but you might want to think about opening up a little. I know that that’s hard and I have no idea what I’m talking about and can’t even begin to understand what you’re going through, but it’s how I feel. That’s how I view the situation.”

   Kendal sighed.

   “You’re right.” She admitted. “God, you’re so right. How come you always get to be right?”

   “Not always.” Victor said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Not even most of the time.”

   Kendal leaned against him. “I miss my dad.”

   “I know. I miss him, too.”

   “But...but he loved John.”

   Victor nodded. “He did. And he loved you, too.”

   Kendal sighed. “Okay. Maybe I can...maybe I can be a little less...closed off.”

   “Alright.”

   “Do you really think he loves me?”

   Victor snickered. “He came to the show and mum said he couldn’t stop smiling. I think that’s evidence enough.”

   Kendal nodded her head. It felt good to be loved again.

 

 

   John Watson wasn’t Kendal Evan’s father.

   That wasn’t news to him. They didn’t even look alike.

   Kendal looked like William. Her actual father.

   So he wasn’t sure why it bothered him that Kendal knew that, too.

   He wasn’t sure what he had expected of Kendal’s performance. Nothing impressive, certainly. But there was something about seeing that little girl, his little girl, up on that stage, giving everything she had to the audience, that made his heart swell with fondness and pride.

   John wished William were still alive. John wished Sherlock were still alive. He and Kendal were scrambling without their other halves in this world, trying to fit around one another like the wrong puzzle pieces.

   It was his fault. He was so wrapped up in this child that wasn’t even his, so enchanted by her sad eyes and sweet voice.

   “John?”

   John’s attention snapped to the doorway. Kendal herself was standing there, her hair falling out of its curls, flyaways surrounding her pensive face.

   “You okay?” He asked. Kendal nodded and sat beside him on the sofa.

   “Thank you for coming tonight.” She said.

   John felt his heart change again. His hurt abated and was replaced with something almost like shame. Kendal had lost her father, of course she didn’t want anyone erasing him and turning her into something she wasn’t.

   Kendal wasn’t his daughter, and that was never going to change. But she was his goddaughter and, more importantly, she was his.

   “You were wonderful.” He said. Kendal smiled. He reached forward and tucked a curl behind her ear, gently running his fingers through her tresses. “Go to bed, Kendal Elaine.”

   Kendal nodded her head. “Goodnight, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

Kendal tried to be more open with John. She spent time in the living room instead of holed up in her bedroom. She asked him for help with homework. She asked him to quiz her over test materials. She tried to eat without his prompting, and let him gently coax her into finishing the last few bites of her pasta or tacos. She asked him about work.

 

And one day, she finally asked him about Sherlock Holmes.

 

It was mostly an accident, really. She just fell into it one day when she found John at the table after school, reading a newspaper.

 

“What’s going on in the world?” She asked, looking over his shoulder. “Anything- oh...”

 

A picture of Sherlock greeted her on the page, the one of him wearing the deerstalker.

 

“...authorities, after a two-year investigation, have found that the late Sherlock Holmes was indeed innocent for his supposed crimes of kidnapping, murder, and fraud.” She read softly. “Oh, John-“

 

“I could have told them that.” He said, setting the paper down and walking into the kitchen.

 

“John, I’m sorry.” She said, following him. “At least his name is cleared, now.”

 

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “I know. And now he’s- God rest his soul, there’s no more loose ends.”

 

_Just you_. Kendal found herself thinking.

 

“What was he like?” She asked, her voice hushed.

 

John looked up, his expression puzzled.

 

“He was-“ he shook his head again. Kendal immediately regretted asking. “He was a bloody awful flatmate.”

 

Kendal wanted to laugh, but didn’t. She could show minimal respect for the dead, even if they were terrible flatmates.

 

“He was brilliant, that’s why he was a terrible flatmate. He could- ah, he could look at you and tell you things about yourself.”

 

“How is that?”

 

“Just through observation.” He said. “The first time we met, he asked me if I had served in Afghanistan or Iraq. He knew because of the tan on my wrist, he knew about Harry-“

 

“Your sister?”

 

“Yes, he knew that Harry liked a drink because of the scratches by the charging port, he knew that my- ah, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, he just- and he just rattled it all off to me like it was nothing, like it was just second nature, and I’m sure it almost was to him, and he could never resist the chance to show off.”

 

Kendal, this time, let herself laugh.

 

“You know,” he said, grabbing two mugs and two bags of tea from the cupboard, “we were after some smugglers, once. They were in London, disguised as Chinese circus performers. I was there on a date with- have you met Sarah from the clinic?”

 

“Not yet,” Kendal answered. John wasn’t surprised, he had barely mentioned Kendal at the clinic. Was that normal? Did people talk about their children?

 

John reminded himself that Kendal wasn’t his child.

 

That didn’t mean that he shouldn’t at least think about putting her picture on his desk.

 

“Well, I was with Sarah, and Sherlock somehow managed to tag along, and they were under the impression that I was Sherlock, because the tickets I used were under his name. They had poor Sarah with an arrow in front of her, I was tied to a chair, and just when a I thought all hope was lost, there-“

 

His voice broke. He busied himself with the tea kettle and avoided looking at Kendal until he felt more steady.

 

“There he was.” He said finally. “Bounding in like some kind of superhero, like something from a storybook.”

 

Kendal smiled.

 

“The scrapes we got into,” John said, shaking his head. “Very near misses, Kendal Elaine, very near.”

 

“Sounds dangerous.” Kendal remarked, taking the tea John had held out to her. He even remembered the honey this time.

 

“It was,” John admitted. “I can’t imagine we would have kept on for much longer, after all, we weren’t getting much younger.”

 

John stopped himself there. He couldn’t explain this to Kendal, he could barely explain it to himself. How could he say that he never saw himself stopping this- this arrangement with Sherlock? The world’s only Consulting Detective and the doctor. He only ever saw himself solving crimes with that inane adventure of a man. It was always Sherlock, even when their hair began to grey and thin and eventually fall, when the creases around their eyes grew into wrinkles around their mouths and on their cheeks. He couldn’t tell her that he always imagined spending the rest of his life with Sherlock. There was no settling down, just lessening the caseload. But it always came back to Sherlock.

 

And now he was gone.

 

“Did he actually wear that hat?” Kendal asked suddenly, like she had been wondering for a very long time. “Because it’s-“

 

“Stupid?” John supplied.

 

Kendal nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“He hated that hat,” he said. “He used it to keep the press away once, and they just ran with it.”

 

Kendal laughed. “And they’re still using that photograph?”

 

“Apparently,” John said. “Everyone else thought it was terribly funny, mostly because he was such a smart-ass, and something like a hat was enough to piss him right off.”

 

Kendal shrugged. “I always thought it was silly.”

 

“He was a silly man.” John said, mostly to himself. “I just-“ he looked at the newspaper, then at Kendal. “Why don’t you go get changed?”

 

“Why?” She asked.

 

“Let’s go have dinner,” he said. “Somewhere nice.”

 

“In Sherlock Holmes’ honor?” Kendal asked.

 

“In his honor, indeed.” John said. “If you want, I’ll tell you about all the cases he didn’t solve and how those bullet holes got in the wall.”

 

Kendal laughed and went to her room to get dressed. John went to the living room and took the newspaper, gazing at that awful photo of Sherlock.

 

“You’d like her, you know.” He said softly. “I know you two would get on.”

 

 

 

Angelo was as sweet as ever, John knew that from the moment he walked into his restaurant.

 

“Dr. Watson,” he said, approaching him as soon as he and Kendal walked inside. “What a surprise.”

 

“Hello, Angelo. Good to see you.” John said, accepting his affectionate handshake.

 

“And who’s your pretty young friend?” He asked, turning towards Kendal, who blushed.

 

Kendal did look very pretty, John noticed, in a short blue dress that brought out her eyes. She smiled.

 

“This is Kendal,” John said, placing his hand on the small of her back and bringing her forward. “My goddaughter.”

 

“Hi,” She said, offering her hand. Angelo, instead of shaking it, lifted It to his lips, as if she were a queen instead of a sweet little girl.

 

“This,” He said, glancing at John. “Is one of the best men I’ve ever known. He and Sherlock- well…” He shook his head. “The stories they could tell you.” He looked up at John again. “I’ll get your old table ready, shall I?”  
  
“Thank you, Angelo.”

 

The old table was right by the window; Angelo set a candle between them, handed them menus, then walked away.

 

“This is nice,” Kendal said. “And you know Angelo?”

 

“Sherlock actually introduced us,” John answered, nodding his head. “During our first case.”

 

“Oh,” Kendal said. “He took you to dinner while you were solving a case?”

 

John nodded. “He thought that he was chasing after someone in a cab, but the murderer wound up being a cabbie…”

 

And that’s how dinner went on; John told Kendal his stories, watching the light of the candle flicker, creating a soft light on her pretty, smiling face.

 

“So he thought he had seen a- like, a monster dog?” Kendal was asking during dessert.

 

“That’s what he thought, yes. As it turns out, he was just as susceptible to suggestion as the rest of us.”

 

“Huh,” Kendal mused.

 

“Are you done?” He asked, looking at her empty plate.

 

“Yeah,” She said, smiling.

  
She watched John haggle with Angelo (who refused to let them pay their bill, something about ‘old times’ and ‘not charging friends’ and ‘you know you’re welcome here anytime) and walked back to Baker Street.

 

“London’s pretty at night,” Kendal said, looking around at the bustling street and the lights of the buildings.

 

John nodded his head, remembering what it was like when he was new to London, a lonely man with a small army pension, who had no idea that what awaited him in London would change everything forever.

 

Eventually, they arrived back at Baker Street and climbed the stairs back to their flat. Kendal’s heart started aching for John as she turned over his stories in her mind. Sherlock had saved John, on some level. He hadn’t told her that, but there was something about the way he spoke about his life before him that let Kendal know.

 

“Well,” John said, turning to her. “You should probably- oh-“

 

Kendal walked forward and wrapped her arms around John’s neck. They were the same height, so it was easy for her to tuck her head into his shoulder. He seemed taken aback for one terrifying moment (God, should she let go?) but before she could act, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly.

 

She and John had never embraced before this moment. That was probably weird, seeing as they had lived together for almost a month and a half.

 

Well, there was that one time, during her first week there, when he found her in the bathroom, but Kendal didn’t like thinking about that night.

 

But still, she and John almost never touched. He sometimes moved hair out of her face or placed his hand on the small of her back when they moved through crowds, but he never pulled her into his arms or kissed her forehead, like her father would have.

 

“I’m sorry about Sherlock,” She said softly.

 

“Don’t be,” He said. “It’s- it’s not your fault. It’s alright, now.”

 

Kendal wanted to protest. Of course it wasn’t alright, of course John was clearly still mourning Sherlock. Of course she was a poor substitute for a man who constantly took him on adventures, who gave him lives to save, who probably never needed him to hold him while he grieved.

 

“Go to sleep,” He said. “I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”

 

“Alright,” Kendal agreed. “Goodnight, John.”

 

“Goodnight, Kendal.”

 

 

Mrs. Hudson wanted to throw Kendal a party.

 

“She’s turning thirteen in a few weeks,” She told John one day when Kendal was at Victor’s. “And I thought it would be good for all of us to have a little party, don’t you think?”

 

“Does Kendal like parties?” John asked.

 

“I’m sure she’ll like this one. We’ll invite Lestrade and her friends from school.”

 

John couldn’t find a reason to object; Kendal’s birthday was coming up, after all, and people would probably attend, since there would be cake, if for no other reason.

 

At least, that’s what he told Kendal when he ran the idea past her.

 

“Do you even want a party?” Victor asked when she told her friends the next day.

 

“I don’t know,” Kendal answered, shrugging. “Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Hudson that. I can’t really, you know, deny her the chance to celebrate everything, not with everything that’s happened.”

 

“By ‘everything,’ you mean Sherlock dying?”

 

Kendal nodded her head. “The least I can do is turn thirteen and eat some cake.”

 

“You like cake,” Victor supposed.

 

“Yeah, so does everyone. And so will you, when you attend.”

 

“I’m invited?”

 

“You and Amy and Ollie all are. That’s why I’m bringing it up.”

 

“We’re invited to Baker Street?” Amy asked, leaning forward, suddenly intrigued.

 

“Don’t get too excited,” Kendal cautioned. “I’m sure it’s not what you’re expecting.”

 

“Victor said it was nice.” Oliver recalled.

 

“It is nice,” Kendal supposed. “I mean, it’s nothing special, but the people are nice.”

 

“I want to meet Dr. Watson,” Amy said. “Mum used to read his blog.”

 

“Don’t introduce him to your mum,” Oliver warned. “She’d chew him up and spit him out.”

 

Amy laughed.

 

“So, can you all be there? At Baker Street on Saturday?” Kendal asked.

 

“I’ll be there,” Victor said.

 

“So will we.” Oliver said, speaking for both himself and Amy. “And we’ll introduce Dr. Watson to the daughter of his newest heartthrob.”

 

“I don’t-“ Kendal furrowed her brow and stopped talking. “No, never mind.”

 

“What?” Victor asked.

 

“It really is nothing, I just- well, sometimes I wonder if- maybe there was something more going on with them. Like, relationship-wise.”

 

“What, like boyfriends?”

 

“Well- I mean, he and Sherlock weren’t boyfriends, but he’s- he’s mourning him like you’d mourn a lover. You should hear the way he talks about him, like Sherlock hung the moon and saved it a million times after.”

 

“You don’t speak very highly of him.” Oliver observed.

 

“Because he-“ Kendal shook her head. “He was innocent. John could have helped him prove that, and he just- he just left.”

 

“Maybe there was something else going on.” Amy supplied. “I mean, the man was a genius, so maybe he had some bigger plan that involved his own death.”

 

“Or maybe he was protecting John.” Oliver pointed out.

 

“Okay, you conspiracists.” Kendal said. “Maybe. But he’s still gone, John is still broken, and we’re still having a party.”

 

 

Mrs. Hudson sent John and Kendal to the store with a list of party necessities two days before Kendal’s birthday.

 

“I didn’t realize so much planning went into these things,” Kendal said, selecting streamers from the shelf (purple and white, per Mrs. Hudson’s request. Kendal couldn’t even remember telling Mrs. Hudson that purple was her favorite color).

 

“You’re not used to parties being thrown in your honor?”

 

“I wouldn’t call it ‘in my honor,’ necessarily.”

 

“It’s your birthday,” John reminded her.

 

“I guess,” Kendal said, shrugging. “I hope she’s not going to too much trouble.”

John nodded his head. For the most part, Kendal’s wishes were granted. The party seemed modest and sweet, but still celebratory.

But wasn’t until May 18th, the day before Kendal’s party, that John realized that he didn’t have a gift for her. He knew that Kendal, bless her, wouldn’t hold a lack of present against him, but still. Birthdays were important.

 

Other people’s were, anyway. John spent his last birthday discovering the difference between cheap gin and expensive gin, and realizing that when you’re sad enough, it all works the same.

 

John hadn’t drank in months, and that was thanks to the almost-teenager that he was wandering around a department store for.

 

Should he look at books? Kendal liked books, and music…

 

Somehow, he wandered over to the jewelry counter, half-heartedly perusing the selection of diamond bracelets and dangling earrings, all things that were for women, not for barely-thirteen-year-old girls.

 

Then something at the back fo the case caught his eye.

 

It was a thin silver chain with a matching silver pendant, a treble clef with tiny rhinestones that caught the light and sparkled. He checked the price and saw that it was far from expensive, but he knew that he would have spent a fortune on it. This was practically made for Kendal; it was small and simple and musical, it was pretty to look at, it shone from far away and sparkled up close, much like the young lady herself.

 

“Excuse me,” he said, stopping the saleswoman behind the counter. “May I have that one, please? The necklace?”

 

“Of course,” she said, reaching behind the glass and plucking it out of the display. “For your daughter?” She asked, taking it to the cash register at the end of the counter.

 

“My goddaughter, actually. Her birthday is tomorrow. She’ll be thirteen.”

 

“That’s very sweet.” She said. “Will you be paying with cash or card?”

 

“Card, please.” John said.

 

“And would you like us to gift wrap this?” She asked. “Seeing as her birthday is tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great, please.” John said, swiping his card.

 

“Any particular colors for the bow?” She asked.

 

“Purple,” John said, remembering her favorite color.

 

“Alright, here you go,” she said, handing him the box, which easily fit into his coat pocket. “Tell your girl ‘happy birthday,’ won’t you?”

 

“Of course,” John said. “Thank you.”

 

And John left the jewelry store, confident that he had found the perfect gift for his Kendal.

 

 

Kendal’s thirteenth birthday was on Saturday, the first day of her Summer holiday.

 

“I guess it’s nice to have a Spring birthday, but that makes you like, the youngest in your class.”

 

John nodded his head, adding a spoonful of honey to her tea.

 

“Mrs. Hudson had to go out this morning,” John said, handing her the steaming mug. “But she wanted me to tell you ‘happy birthday’ and remind you that your guests will arrive at seven this evening.”

 

“How could I forget?” Kendal asked. “Thank you, by the way. For the tea.”

 

“My pleasure,” John said, sitting across from her at the table.

  
“Do you have to go to the clinic?” She asked.

 

“I figured I would take the day to help Mrs. Hudson decorate.”

  
“That’s nice of you,” Kendal said, taking a sip of her tea. John couldn’t help but notice that Kendal looked the least little bit sad. He had, on rare occasions, seen her fully smile as more than a courtesy or a facade. Her smile now had the edges of a grimace, like it took extra effort to keep it in place.

 

John knew that she was thinking of her dad. Little girls weren’t supposed have thirteenth birthday parties without their fathers in attendance.

 

“Eat your toast,” He gently prompted. She complied. He watched her for a moment before he slid a silver box, tied with a purple ribbon, across the table to her.

 

“What’s this?” She asked, looking up from her breakfast.

 

“For your birthday, of course.” He said. Kendal smiled.

  
“You know, you really didn’t have to do that,” She said, untying the ribbon and opening the box. “I thought that I made that- oh. This is- this is lovely.”

 

She lifted the necklace out of its box, observing how the pendant caught the light.

 

“Here, let me.” John said, walking around the table. Kendal handed him the necklace and moved her hair to the side, allowing him to fasten it around her neck. The treble clef fell between her collarbones, halfway between her heart and her vocal chords.

 

“Thank you,” she said. He was sure that her smile was real.

 

“You’re very welcome,” he said, sitting back down. “Now, finish your toast.”

 

 

Lestrade looked different, and the same. He had cut his hair, and he looked thinner, maybe a little older. John knew that he probably looked the same way, like a echo of the John Watson that Lestrade first met.

 

“It’s good to see you, mate.” He said, shaking John’s hand as he crossed Baker Street’s familiar threshold. “You’ve changed a few things, haven’t you?” He asked, looking at the streamers festooned from the ceiling.

 

“Just a few,” John said, smiling.

 

“So, Kendal’s your…”

 

“Goddaughter,” John clarified. “My friend William’s daughter.”

 

“Ah,” He said, nodding his head.

 

“William died this March,” John said.

 

“And Kendal’s, what, thirteen today?”

 

John nodded.

 

“Good God,” He said, shaking his head. “That’s-“

 

“A lot,” John agreed.

 

He and Lestrade got to chat for a few more minutes about work and family before Kendal descended the stairs.

 

“There you are,” John said, glancing at his watch. “Your people are on their way?”

 

Kendal nodded her head. That was when John noticed how pretty she looked, with her hair curled and wearing that blue dress that brought out her eyes.

 

And her new necklace shone at her neck.

 

“Hi, all,” She said. “Am I late?”

 

“No, love, I’m early.” Lestrade said. “You must be Kendal.”

 

Kendal smiled and shook his hand. “And you’re Detective Inspector-“

 

“Call me Greg,” He interrupted.

 

John thought of how Sherlock never remembered Lestrade’s name.

 

And then how Sherlock would have laughed if he heard Lestrade introducing himself to Kendal as such.

 

And how Sherlock would have loved tonight, how he would have griped about having to spend an evening socializing, but how he would have helped Mrs. Hudson decorate and helped pick out Kendal’s present.

 

And how Sherlock was gone, was so far gone, would never know Kendal-

 

Stop. John told himself. Stop that. It’s Kendal’s night.

 

Then there was a knock at the door, and Kendal’s friends, entered 221B for the first time. John got to meet Oliver and Amy for the first time and Victor for the second time. In an instant, it became clear how closely-knit the four were, how much they loved each other.

 

And that Victor obviously had a crush on Kendal, who was completely oblivious.

 

“My mum used to read your blog,” Amy, her friend with bright red hair, said when they were introduced. “She wanted me to tell you ‘hello.’”

 

John remembered Kendal mentioning Amy’s mother, something about how her new career had turned her into an entirely new woman. He remembered Kendal mentioning that she was, to use her words, “pretty like Amy.”

 

He wondered how lonely he would have to get before he started dropping mothers of his goddaughter’s friends’ a line.

 

And Oliver was all good-natured adolescent self-deprecation, and offered to teach Kendal ukulele chords when she unwrapped her gift (surprise, a ukulele) from Mrs. Hudson.

 

He wondered if he ever had friends like this, friends that could have helped him in his time of grief.

 

Then he remembered how he had pushed his friends away when Sherlock died, how he had more or less died himself.

 

Then he looked across the table at Kendal, who was standing above her birthday cake, her face illuminated by the light of thirteen birthday candles.

  
He remembered what brought him back to life.

 

It wasn’t until they were halfway through cake, when the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, when Mrs. Hudson asked Kendal and her friends to play them a song.

 

“I have an old standup piano downstairs,” She explained, looking at Victor. “You play, don’t you?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Victor said, looking flustered, but not uncomfortable. John had a feeling that he was asked this often.

 

“And you play the guitar, like Kendal? And you know the ukulele.” She added, looking at Amy and Oliver, who both nodded. “And Kendal, you could sing us a song.”

 

Before John knew it, he was sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s living room, seeing Kendal and her friends crowded around a piano. Amy sat on the ground with Kendal’s guitar in her lap, Oliver fiddled with the tuning pegs of the new ukulele.

 

“Any requests?” Kendal asked, looking around the room. Victor elbowed her gently and whispered something in her ear. Automatically, her eyes lit up and she smiled.

 

“Yeah, that one.” She said, nodding her head. Victor’s hands went to the piano and played the first chord.

 

_For you, there'll be no more crying_

_For you, the sun will be shining_

_And I feel that when I'm with you_

_It's alright, I know it's right_

 

John tried to stop himself from laughing, not out of genuine humor, but just marveling at how Kendal and her friends had learned a song older than they were.

 

_To you, I'll give the world_

_To you, I'll never be cold_

_'Cause I feel that when I'm with you_

_It's alright, I know it's right._

 

John looked at his goddaughter’s face. She was smiling and focusing on a faraway point out the window.

 

A focal point, she called it.

 

_And the songbirds are singing_

_Like they know the score_

_And I love you, I love you, I love you_

_Like never before_

 

John couldn’t remember the last time he told someone that he loved them. He vaguely remembered the last person he loved, but he couldn’t dwell on that, not tonight-

 

Instead, he looked at his songbird, lovely in her blue plumage, surrounded by the rest of her flock, using her sweet voice to serenade the room.

 

_And I wish you all the love in the world_

_But most of all, I wish it from myself_

 

John was glad that Kendal had friends.

 

And he was happy that he had Kendal.

 

_And the songbirds keep singing_

_Like they know the score_

_And I love you, I love you, I love you_

_Like never before_

_Like never before_

_Like never before._

 

The party dissolved a while after the modest applause died down. John and Kendal helped Mrs. Hudson clean up the flat before she went to bed. John descended the stairs with his landlady to take the garbage to the dumpster.

 

“Kendal’s lucky to have you,” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly as he walked outside.

 

John smiled. “I’m the lucky one.”

 

Mrs. Hudson bade him goodnight. John threw away the trash bag and went back to the darkened flat.

 

Kendal was sitting in front the window, leaning on the back of his armchair. Her head was bowed, dark curls fell around her face, hiding her expression.

 

But one of her hands was at her throat, her fingers gently clasping the pendant on her new necklace.

 

He swallowed, knowing that Kendal had been thinking about her father the whole evening, just like he had been thinking about Sherlock.

 

He approached her slowly and placed a hand around her shoulders.

 

“Happy birthday, Kendal.” He said. He saw her lips twitch, like she was trying to smile. When she couldn’t, she rested her head against his shoulder, leaning against him.

 

“It was a lovely party,” She said.

 

John nodded his head. “Your friends are very talented. And you sounded beautiful.”

 

“Thanks,” Kendal said. “My dad used to sing it for me.”

 

“He’d be proud of you.”

 

Kendal sighed. “Thank you for my necklace.”

 

“It’s beautiful on you.”

 

Kendal smiled, for real this time.

 

“Go to sleep, Kendal.”

 

Kendal’s head lingered on his shoulder before she bade him goodnight.

 

The summer went by. Kendal went to her friend’s houses and occasionally hosted movie nights. Sometimes John made them popcorn and sat down with them for a little bit when they invited him to watch the film with them.

 

He went on dates. He asked out women he saw on the tube or in cafes. Some of them went well, most of them didn’t lead to second interactions.

 

He came home to Kendal. They watched telly together. Sometimes he came home while she was playing her guitar in the living room and told her to stay when she offered to go to her room. She learned songs he talked about liking.

 

They went to museums and sightseeing. Kendal had seen surprisingly little of London.

 

The Summer ended. Kendal started eighth grade. He woke up early with her so they could have breakfast together.

 

He packed her snacks for school. Kendal always insisted that she didn’t get hungry throughout the day, but John always noticed that containers that contained apple slices or carrot sticks were always empty at the end of the day.

 

At the beginning of September, just as it was starting to get colder outside, John handed her something before she left for school, just after he put a container of red grapes in her backpack.

 

“Here,” He said. “Put this on, you’ll get cold.”

 

Kendal looked at the worn blue scarf in her hands, then placed it around her neck.

 

“This looks familiar,” She observed. “Where did you get it?”

 

“Who taught you how to put on a scarf?” John wondered, taking the ends out of her hands and wrapping it snuggly around her neck. “And- well, this was Sherlock’s.”

 

Kendal’s eyes widened, her hands flew to her neck and started unwinding the scarf. “John, I can’t take-“

 

“Kendal,” He said. “Don’t talk it off. It’s- it should get some use.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

John nodded his head. “Go to school, alright?”

 

Kendal smiled. “Alright. I’ll see you tonight.”

 

John closed the door behind her and cleared the kitchen table before heading to the clinic.

 

And somewhere, atall man with dark curly hair, clad in a black coat without his trademark blue scarf, stepped into the city’s streets and breathed in the brisk London air for the first time in years.


	4. Chapter 4

Baker Street was more or less the same, Sherlock surmised as he walked into his old flat.

 

Though it was much cleaner. His skull was missing from the mantle, but his violin was still there.

 

He went to the bathroom he and John shared. It was cleaner, too. He almost didn’t recognize it with the counters cleared off.

 

He glanced over at the half-opened shower curtain.

 

John had started using blue shampoo, apparently.

 

Sherlock didn’t waste time wondering about that and walked back to the living room. He took his violin from the mantle, fiddled with the tuning pegs for a moment, and set it on his shoulder.

 

He had missed this terribly, standing in his home and playing his instrument, awaiting John’s return from wherever the hell he went during the day.

 

Before too long, there were footsteps coming from the stairwell.

 

John was lighter on his feet, it would seem.

 

Then the door opened, and a young girl stepped into Baker Street and looked up at him.

 

“Uh,” The girl said, backing towards the door. “Uh- hi?”

 

Sherlock looked up. A whole mess of deductions ran through his head once he fully looked at this girl.

 

_Orphan, soprano, bookworm, grieving, nail-biter, ingenue-_

 

“Acoustic or electric?” He asked, looking back down at his violin.

 

“What?” She asked.

 

“Do you play the acoustic guitar or the electric?”

 

“I- uh, acoustic, most of the- wait, who are you?”

 

Sherlock stood and walked towards her. She kept backing away.

 

“You have callouses on your left hand, but only on the tips of your index, middle, and ring fingers, the exact digits you need to play basic guitar chords. Given your age and the size of your hands, it wouldn’t make any sense that you would be playing barre chords quite yet, and you’ve got smaller, similar callouses forming on your right hand, because you’ve just begun to learn picking patterns-“

 

Kendal shook her head. “What?”

 

“I really don’t understand why you’re asking that question again, do try and keep up in the future. How old were you?”

 

“How old was I?” She asked, bewildered.

 

“When someone died.” He said.

 

Kendal shook her head. “I- oh, God-“

 

She turned and opened the door she had been leaning against and ran out of the flat.

 

_Okay, okay._ She told herself. _It’s okay, it’s okay. You are fine._

 

With that thought in mind, Kendal began to wonder if she was going crazy.

 

She saw a dead man in her flat. A dead man she had never met, but who used to live right there in 221B.

 

A man whose bedroom she was sleeping in, now.

 

Kendal raised her hand, hailing a cab. John would be home from the clinic soon, but she needed him now.

 

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t dead.

 

oOo

 

John was packing up his things to leave when Kendal came into the room, looking very nearly panicked.

 

“Oh- oh, God. Kendal, what’s wrong?”

 

Kendal just kept looking at him, her eyes wide and bewildered, like she had seen a ghost.

 

“Goodness, Kendal, you’re shaking- wait, where’s your jacket? It’s cold out there, you’ll freeze-“

 

“I came home and there was someone in our flat.” She said, each word spilling out, one after another, with almost no pauses in between.

 

“What? Did they hurt you?”

 

“I’m- no, I’m fine, but they- John, he was playing his violin and he looked- John, he looked just like him, he looked at me just once and he knew me, he knew that I played the guitar, that- that someone- someone of mine had died and-“

 

“Wait, wait-“

 

“John, I swear on my father’s grave, I saw Sherlock Holmes in the living room.”

 

John’s heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach. How could Sherlock Holmes be in his living room? As many times as he had imagined it, had begged for it, had wished and hoped to wake up and for Sherlock to be in his armchair like nothing had ever gone wrong-

 

He couldn’t be. He couldn’t be sitting in the living room because Sherlock was dead.

 

But the look on Kendal’s face, the fact that she was trembling where she stood, everything she had said about this stranger she had encountered...

 

“Am I going mad?” She asked him.

 

“No,” John automatically said. “You aren’t going mad. Here,” he took off his cardigan and placed it around her shaking shoulders. “I’ll go back with you. We’ll see what this is about.”

 

oOo

 

John was the next person to walk into 221B, looking like he was ready to fight something.

 

And that girl was beside him.

 

And she was wearing his cardigan.

 

John’s eyes widened just like hers had when he saw Sherlock.

 

“Jesus Christ,” He breathed, stepping back. He turned to her. “Do you- you see him too?”

 

She nodded her head.

 

“About time,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “God, I’ve waited for-“

 

Sherlock was on the ground before he could finish his sentence.

 

And his nose seemed to be bleeding.

 

“How could you?” John asked as he sat up. “How could you?”

 

“Wait, this is really him?” The girl asked, walking from the door and into the living room.

 

“Of course it’s me,” Sherlock cried, wiping his streaming nose on his sleeve.

 

“Oh, my God…” Kendal breathed, shaking her head. “How?”

 

“Bloody good question,” John said, looking down at Sherlock. “Which you are going to answer.”

 

“Don’t you have some explaining of your own to do?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the child behind him.

 

“Sherlock, this is Kendal.”

 

“Hi,” Kendal said, waving.

 

“Now, tell me what’s going on.”

 

Sherlock glanced at Kendal.

 

“I needed to stop Moriarity. And clear my name.”

 

“And you had to do that by dying?”

 

“I had to do that by something,” Sherlock said almost exasperatedly.

  
“And you couldn’t-“ John stopped talking and turned to Kendal. “Kendal, could you give us a moment?”

 

She nodded her head and left the room.

 

“So, who is Kendal?” Sherlock asked, standing.

 

“And you had to do that by dying?” John asked again.

 

“It was my only option,” Sherlock said. “I was sure-“

 

“You were dead, Sherlock. I saw you-“

 

“Oh, that wasn’t me.”

 

“Then who the hell was it?”

 

Sherlock looked at his old friend.

 

“You may want to sit down.”

 

John dropped into his armchair. Sherlock sat in his.

 

While Sherlock was explaining how and why he managed to fake his own death, John found himself looking down at his arms, tightly crossed on his chest.

 

How many times had he imagined Sherlock being alive? Being alive and alright and right here? How many times had he imagined welcoming him back with opened arms?

 

Now his arms were crossed, and his anger towards the man sitting across from him was seething under his skin.

 

Two years.

 

Two years of cheap vodka and sleepless nights and desperation. Two years of wondering what on earth he would be able to do with himself until God finally stopped his heart.

 

And only six months with Kendal, only four months of finally feeling like he could heal.

 

“…he had to be stopped, John.” Sherlock finally said, shaking his head. “And I regret any hurt that my absence may have caused you, but it truly was necessary.”

 

John looked over at Sherlock.

 

“And now you’re back?” He asked, his throat surprisingly dry.

 

To his surprise, Sherlock looked almost sheepish when he answered.

 

“If you’d like,” He said. “I understand that things may be more complicated, with…” He glanced down the hall.

 

“With Kendal?” He supplied.

 

“Kendal,” Sherlock mused. “Yes. How did that happen, by the way?”

 

“How did Kendal happen?” John asked pointedly.

 

Sherlock ignored the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Yes. Explain, please.”

 

John sighed.

 

“Kendal’s dad was one of my best friends from University, he and his wife Millicent had Kendal just before I went to Afghanistan.”

 

“Father,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “I knew it was someone.”

  
“What?”

 

“I knew Kendal had lost someone-“

 

“Yes, she mentioned that.”

 

“So, how did he die?”

 

“Car crash,” He said, shaking his head. “In March.”

 

“This March?”

 

John nodded his head. “It was a sad business, Sherlock. Kendal’s still torn up about it.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “It’s obvious.”

 

“It’s-“ He shook his head. “She’s a good kid, Sherlock. A sweet kid, too. And her friends are good kids, too-“

 

“But why is she with you?”

 

“Because I’m her godfather and her father is gone.”

 

“Doesn’t she have a-“ Sherlock exhaled, remembering one deduction he had forgotten. “Kendal’s mother left.”

 

John nodded his head. “That’s what Kyle said.”

 

“Kyle?”

  
  
“One of her dad’s mates.”

 

“Why isn’t Kyle taking care of her?”

 

“Because Kyle’s not her godfather.”

 

Sherlock looked at John.

 

“You care about this,” He observed. “You really care about this ceremonial duty-“

 

“It’s not ceremonial anymore, Sherlock. William is gone, and Kendal needs me.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. So it was Kendal who saved his John while he was away. He should feel grateful towards her.

 

“Have you made yourself known to Mrs. Hudson?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Well, then we’ve got something to do, don’t we?”

 

oOo

 

An hour later, John figured that he had plenty of explaining to do for his Kendal. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed when he knocked on her bedroom door.

 

“What’s going on?” She asked, looking up from her laptop. “John, what’s going on?”

 

John sat on the bed. “Kendal, I don’t- Sherlock is back.”

 

“How does that even work?” She wondered, her eyes wide.

 

John shook his head. “He explained it earlier, but-“

 

“Are you sure it’s him?”

 

“Only he could pull something like that off.”

 

Kendal’s brow furrowed. She looked down at her right hand and brought it to her mouth, chewing the fingernail on her middle finger.

 

“Don’t do that,” John said gently, taking her hand and placing it back in her lap.

 

“There’s a dead man in our flat.”

 

“I- I know.”

 

“Is he staying?”

 

“Is that okay with you?”

 

Kendal looked surprised. “I- John, he was here first.”

 

“But you’re here now.”

 

“I-“ She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t have any problems with him staying.”

 

And she couldn’t be the one that took Sherlock away from John again.

 

“We’re ordering Chinese tonight from that place you like, the one that also has sushi?” John said. “Why don’t you come out and- well, we’ll all get acquainted?”

 

Kendal nodded her head. “I- uh, would you run lines for me? I have an audition.”

 

John brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Whatever you want. And Sherlock will be happy to help.”

 

oOo

 

KENDAL: Hey so Sherlock Holmes isn’t dead??

 

VICTOR: Wait what

 

KENDAL: Sherlock Holmes

  
KENDAL: Isn’t

 

KENDAL: Dead

 

KENDAL: He is sitting across from me right now

 

KENDAL: Eating spicy tuna rolls and chicken teriyaki

 

KENDAL: And guessing what the fortune cookies say

 

KENDAL: Guessing CORRECTLY, by the way

 

OLIVER: Kendal, don’t mess with us after dinner. You know it’s too late for that

 

Kendal discreetly snapped a picture of Sherlock and sent it to the group chat.

 

OLIVER: WHAT

 

AMY: NO WAY

 

VICTOR: How?

  
OLIVER: YES HOW KENDAL

 

OLIVER: HOW IS THERE A FAMOUSLY DEAD MAN AT YOUR KITCHEN TABLE?

 

KENDAL: Good freakin’ question.

  
KENDAL: I came home after school today and he was playing the violin in the living room, so I ran to the clinic and got John and brought him back to Baker Street, and then they had a very loud conversation, I went to my room and now Sherlock is moved into the bedroom downstairs.

 

AMY: That’s crazy

 

AMY: When can we meet him?

 

Kendal snorted.

 

KENDAL: Not sure. I’ve barely even met him.

 

“Kendal?”

 

Kendal looked up from her phone.

 

“Sorry,” She said, slipping it into her pocket. “What’s up?”

 

“We were just wondering what show you were auditioning for?”

 

“Little Shop of Horrors,” She said. “It’s about a plant that eats people.”

 

“Ah,” John said. “That sounds-“

 

“Unsettling?”

 

“Exactly,” John said, laughing. Sherlock cracked a smile, to Kendal’s surprise.

 

“So when will that be?” John asked, putting another serving of orange chicken with fried rice on her plate.

 

“First weekend of November,” She answered. “You know, if I’m cast.”

 

“They’re going to cast you,” John said, rolling his eyes.

 

Kendal shrugged, noticing that John was eating a lot, more than he had in the months that she had known him.

 

“Kendal was one of the leads in her school’s last musical.” John explained to Sherlock.

 

“I wasn’t a lead,” Kendal amended. “Technically, a supporting character.”

 

“She’s being modest,” John said to Sherlock. “When did you say your audition was again?”

 

“They start tomorrow, but callbacks are the day after, so the cast list should be up on Friday.”

 

The old clock that Mrs. Hudson put on the mantle by Sherlock’s violin chimed.

 

“Goodness, it’s that late?” John said. “Kendal, you’ve got to get to bed.”

 

Kendal popped one last sushi roll in her mouth and stood up from the table.

 

“G’night, John.” She said, her mouth full. “G’night, Sherlock.”

 

The next morning, Kendal woke up, got dressed, curled her hair for her audition, and went into the kitchen for breakfast.

 

And there Sherlock Holmes was, sitting across from John, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

 

Kendal sighed internally. This would take some getting used to.


	5. Chapter 5

“Care to explain?”

 

Kendal jumped, throwing a hand over her heart. “Victor, my God!”

 

Victor laughed and sat beside her. “I didn’t mean to scare you, though it was funny to see you jump out and right back in to your skin.”

 

“Hardy har har,” Kendal said, shoving her books into her locker.

 

“So…care to explain?” Victor asked again.

 

“Explain what?”

 

“How Sherlock Holmes is alive!” He cried. “C’mon! If Amy and Oliver weren’t at orchestra practice right now, you know they’d be attacking you for answers.”

 

“Believe me, I know.” Kendal said, rolling her eyes. “And I’ll fill all three of you in over lunch, then I hope we can focus on auditions. You know, the important thing that’s happening today.”

 

Victor shook his head. “Why aren’t you happy about this? You were always talking about how John missed him.”

 

“Sherlock took himself away from John, Victor.” Kendal said emphatically. “How is he supposed to feel about that? He let John mourn for years.”

 

“Didn’t he explain why?”   
  
“Not to me,” Kendal said, shaking her head. “And there’s no explanation. People shouldn’t leave their people.”

 

Victor realized that Kendal probably would have been more sympathetic towards Sherlock’s plight had her own father still been here, but he also realized that if her dad were there, they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.

 

“Is he nice?” He asked.

  
“He’s fine,” She answered. “He doesn’t seem particularly interested in me, honestly. I don’t think he likes me.”

 

“Of course he likes you.”

 

Kendal shrugged. “I don’t care, one way or another.”

 

The bell rang, signaling that she and Victor had five minutes to make it to their first class.

 

“C’mon, we’ll be late.” Kendal said.

 

oOo

 

Kendal didn’t like him. That was obvious.

 

Not that Sherlock cared. Not that he could be bothered to think of Kendal as something other than John’s Goddaughter.

 

And really, was she so interesting? She was your typical thirteen-year-old girl, with eyes that rolled whenever she thought no one noticed and an apparent desire for the stage. Why couldn’t John have inherited a child with personality? Maybe a chemistry prodigy or a kleptomaniac?

 

But John loved her. That was even more obvious. He helped her read lines for her auditions and asked her about her day because that mattered to him.

 

Kendal mattered. She was a New Thing that mattered to John.

 

Sherlock’s phone chimed.  
  
MYCROFT: Lay low for at least 48 hours. If possible, try not to make it too apparent that you are back at Baker Street.

 

SHERLOCK: Details, if you would.

 

Instead of texting back, Mycroft called.

 

“Why am I laying low?” He asked.

 

“Because you may have destroyed Moriarity, Sherlock, but you still made a great many enemies along the way.”

 

“And they want me dead? How dull.”  
  
“I should remind you, Sherlock, there’s not just you to worry about anymore.”

 

“John can take care of himself.”

 

“I wasn’t talking about John, and you know that quite well.”

 

Sherlock glanced at the mantle, at a school picture of a certain child.

 

“How do you know about that?”

 

“She has a name, Sherlock, and you’d do well to learn it, now that you two are flatmates.”

 

“A flatmate who doesn’t pay rent.”

 

“Yes, because your flatmate has yet to finish the eighth grade.”

 

“How convenient.”

  
“I’m detecting jealousy, Sherlock.”

  
“I don’t get jealous.”

 

“Don’t lie to me, you know it won’t work. I’m sure nothing about your arrangement with John will change because of your new addition.”

 

“She’s not my new addition.”

 

“But she’s John’s, and isn’t what’s his is yours?”

 

“Why are you so interested in this?”

“Because I think you’d do well to be friends with Miss Evans,Sherlock. I think you’d both be happier and safer if that were the case.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you around, Mycroft.”

 

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

 

oOo

 

Kendal arrived in Baker Street after her audition that evening, fretting over the callback list that would be posted in the morning.

 

And about Sherlock Holmes, who was sitting in the living room.

 

“Evening,” She said, walking into the flat.

 

“How was school?” John called from the kitchen. “Do you want tea?”

 

“Fine, and yes please.” Kendal answered. “How was work?”

 

“Fine,” John answered. “How was the audition?”

 

Kendal smiled. “Better than usual. I think I have a good chance of getting called back for Audrey.”

 

“And Audrey is-“

 

“Female lead,” She said, grinning.

 

“Thatta girl,” John said. “Now-“

  
Sherlock’s phone chimed, cutting of John’s words.

 

“Mycroft,” He said. Kendal tried to ignore how rude he was acting. John had been right, he was an awful flatmate.

 

“No,” Sherlock said, pulling her out of her annoyance. “Yes, she-“ He looked over, making brief eye contact with Kendal. “No, Mycroft. I told you that I’d take care of it. Yes, fine. Goodbye.”

 

Sherlock hung up the phone.

 

“Did you tell anyone I was alive?” He asked her, standing and walking to the kitchen.

 

“I- yeah, I told Amy and Victor and Ollie,” She said.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Well, that complicates things.”

 

“What? Why?” Kendal asked. “I don’t-“

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.

 

“Excuse me?” Kendal asked, affronted.

 

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked, putting a hand on Kendal’s shoulder to pacify her.

 

“Did you text them about this?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I- yeah, we have a group chat.”

 

“And did you talk about it at school?”

 

“Well, they obviously wanted more details, so yeah, a little.”

 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked, more forcefully this time.

 

“The circle of people who knew that I am alive and no longer on the run used to consist of five people. That’s you, you, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Molly.” His eyes opened. “Now it’s you, you, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, Victor, Amy, Ollie, and whatever child overheard you while you were discussing my return from dismantling the biggest criminal web in the world.”

 

Kendal felt gooseflesh erupt on her arms.

 

“Is that a problem?” She asked, trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt.

 

“The circle has at least doubled in size, Miss Evans. It certainly sounds like a problem, doesn’t it?”

 

“Wait, so I can’t tell my friends things anymore?” Kendal asked.

 

Sherlock answered “yes” and the same time John said “no.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Kendal said stubbornly.

 

“I know it’s not,” John said gently. “But that’s just part of the risk you run-“

 

“I’m not the one running any risks,” Kendal interrupted.

 

“Watch your tone, young lady.” John warned. Kendal’s cheeks flushed an even deeper red.

 

“Alright, fine.” She said, turning towards the hallway. “Goodnight, Dr. Watson.”

 

Her dark curls bounced on her shoulders as she escaped to her bedroom.

 

“Well, that went well!” Sherlock said brightly.

 

“Sherlock,” John said. “Look-“

 

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, John, I think it actually could have been much worse.”

 

“It really couldn’t have,” John said. “Sherlock, things have to be- look, things have to be a little bit different now because of Kendal, alright?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I mean that Kendal is only a child. I mean that she needs to feel safe here, like she can have a normal life.”

 

“We don’t do normal here, John, you know that.”

 

“You don’t do normal, Sherlock. Kendal has to, alright? And we have to for her sake, alright? Things are different, now. That’s what happens over two years.”

 

Maybe John imagined it, but Sherlock looked almost hurt.

John shook his head and turned back to his tea. He couldn't deal with that just now.

 

oOo

 

Kendal was still angry the next morning when she got dressed and went to school. That anger carried her through her classes and her callback and all the way home to Baker Street.

 

_Maybe I should have gone with Kyle,_ she thought bitterly. _Who cares that I was actually starting to be happy with John and with Baker Street, that I was actually starting to wake up again. Who cares that Sherlock had to come and ruin everything. Who cares that his work matters more to John than I do._

There was a cab parked outside of Baker Street. Kendal didn't think anything of it until someone got out of the car and walked towards her.

 

"Can I help- hey!" 

 

The perp snaked his arm around her waist and lifted her upwards, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

 

Kendal screamed and kicked and struggled for the precious few seconds before he opened the door of a car and threw her inside.

 

Sherlock Holmes was in the passenger seat.

 

“Sherlock,” She breathed before someone else put a hand over her mouth. She took a breath and the world went dark.

 

When Kendal woke, she was alone. It took a moment to take in her surroundings. Bare walls, a small vent at the top of the wall, a stool that she felt too woozy to sit in, and a large window that peered into the next room before her.

That’s where Sherlock was, standing in the middle of the room, placing about as if he were bored.

 

“Shherll…” Kendal slurred, reaching towards the window. “Sherlock, whuzzgoingonn…”

 

The world started to clear. Kendal managed to get to her feet just as someone started walking towards Sherlock. He was a tall, scarily skinny gentleman with milky white skin and hollow eyes. Kendal shivered.

 

“You took your time,” Sherlock said. Kendal was amazed at his grace under pressure; she wasn’t even in the room and she was practically shaking in her shoes.

 

“You’ve not been an easy man to find,”

 

“Nah, cuz you wanted to go home so badly to your doctor and his girl.”

 

“Yes, where is Kendal, by the way?”

 

“If this goes well, we’ll give her back to Dr. Watson soon enough.”

 

A chill ran down Kendal’s spine. If this went well?

 

What happened if it went poorly?

  
All of a sudden, she felt horrible about how her most recent interaction with John and ended. She had been so angry, she hadn’t tried to settle her anger or apologize…

 

She hadn’t told him thank you for taking care of her…

 

She thought about the night that she found new shampoo in the shower, how John had seen what scene and brand she liked and bought new bottles, how she had cried and how he had held her without any prompting.

 

Then he came to her show. He made her dinner. He helped Mrs. Hudson throw her a party, he bought her the necklace that she hadn’t taken off since her thirteenth birthday-

 

John loved her, she realized that now. John loved her more than she deserved, and she hadn’t even tried to work with him when Sherlock came back. All she had cared about was wanting John to herself.

 

And now what would happen to her? What would happen to him?

And Sherlock, oh God, what about Sherlock?

 

“You’re still alive,” the skinny man said. Kendal noticed that he was holding a gun. Kendal had never seen gun in person before, only on television. “How’d you do that?”

 

“Would you believe it if I said magic?”

 

“Tell me where he is,” he said, cocking his head and walking towards Sherlock. “Tell me where Jimmy is.”

 

“He’s dead,” Sherlock answered smoothly. “He has been for years.”

 

“So were you, weren’t you? And here you are, right as rain.”

 

Sherlock was dead, Kendal remembered, shaking her head. Sherlock was dead for two years and John had mourned for two years and had jumped back into this life with him-

 

And all at once, it was clear.

 

John was in love with Sherlock.

 

That was why his death had broken him so badly, that was why he forgave him so quickly, why he ran to save his life without so much as missing a beat or blinking an eye.

 

“Sherlock, no!” Kendal screamed, pounding on the glass. “Sherlock, you can’t!”

 

He didn’t even glance her way, in fact, he didn’t look like he had seen her at all.

 

“Oh, no.” Kendal breathed, realizing that Sherlock couldn’t see her, this was one-sided glass. Sherlock didn’t even know she was there, he didn’t know that she knew.

 

Which meant that Sherlock didn’t know, either. How could the world’s cleverest man be so remarkably dense?

 

Kendal had to do something, she had to stop Sherlock from facing a murderer alone. He couldn’t die, not again, not without knowing that John loved him.

 

She looked around the room and tried the door. Locked.

 

She couldn’t fit through the vent, and even then, she would probably just wind up lost in the ceiling, anyway.

 

Then she looked at the window again.

 

She picked up the stool and took a breath.

 

This was the stupidest thing she could think of, but possibly her only way out.

 

Mustering all of her strength, Kendal chucked the stool at the window.

  
And it shattered. Pieces of glass scattered into her room, and to where Sherlock was on the other side. Thankfully, there had been enough of a hole left in the window for her to climb through with minimal scratches from the remaining glass.

 

Kendal bolted straight to the maniac and jumped on his back, wrapping her arms and legs around his torso, tackling him fairly effectively.

 

“Fairly” effectively because it gave Sherlock enough time to rush over and stop the bomb.

 

However, that didn’t stop him from eventually throwing Kendal off of his back and grabbing her, holding the gun to her temple.

 

“Maybe now you and me can negotiate,” He said to Sherlock.

 

“That would be quite silly of you.” Sherlock said, standing and brushing off his coat.

 

“No, ‘snot,” He responded. “You keep quiet for a little bit before you call your friends at Scotland Yard, and I don’t pull the trigger.”

 

Kendal noticed that her hands were shaking, that her entire body was shaking.

 

_Oh, God,_ She thought. _I’m going to die, there is a gun to my head he is going to pull the trigger and I’m going to die oh God why am I crying why am I shaking_

 

“John loves you,” Kendal blubbered. “John loves you, Sherlock-“

 

“Kendal, it’s fine.” Sherlock said, glancing down at her.

 

“‘snot fine if she’s dead now, innit?”

  
“You aren’t going to kill her.” Sherlock said. “Just let her go and run as fast as you can in the other direction.”

 

“Why? Cuz you’re scared to lose this?” He asked, jostling Kendal’s shaking form.

 

“Because if you don’t run fast enough, I’m going to catch you.” Sherlock said. “And I can think of at least fourteen different ways that I can kill you with just my hands, and I’m sure you’d rather just try to pursue a life on the run.”

 

“What if I kill her and then run?”

 

“Then I’ll run faster.” Sherlock said, taking a step closer. “But if you’re going to start, I’d suggest doing so now. Kendal has been in this position for a while and I’m sure John would rather we keep her trauma to a minimum.”

 

“You’re bluffing-“

 

“I don’t bluff.” Sherlock walked closer. He was an arm’s length away; if Kendal died, she would fall towards him. “Now, scatter.”

 

And then Kendal was on the ground, gasping for breath and making these racking, choking noises that didn’t even sound human, just dry, heaving, tearless sobs.

 

Sherlock took his cell phone from his pocket.

  
“You got him?” He asked. “Alright, good. Yes, Kendal’s fine. Yes, it’s safe to come in. Alright.”

 

And then he was knelt beside her.

 

“He g-got- he got away…” Kendal choked out, propping herself up so she was knelt in front of Sherlock.

 

“No he didn’t,” Sherlock said. “Here, can I touch you?”

 

Kendal nodded her head. Sherlock reached out and starting rubbing her shaking arms.

 

“It’s alright,” He said. “He’s gone. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

 

Then the doors opened and, thank God, John Watson stepped into the room.

 

“Of all the things you drag me into, Sherlock Holmes,” He said, shaking his head.

 

“John,” Kendal sobbed, looking up at him.

 

“It’s alright,” He said. Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t ask before pulling her into his arms. “You’re alright.”

 

Kendal nodded her head and cried into his chest, letting him gently rock her back and forth.

 

“And you are okay, aren’t you?” John said, glancing up at Sherlock.

 

“So it seems,” Sherlock said.

 

“I want to go home.” Kendal said, wiping her eyes.

 

“We will soon, love.” John promised. “Did he hurt you?”

 

She shook her head. “The window didn’t, either.”

 

“Window?” John asked.

 

“Kendal threw a chair through a window and tackled the perpetrator.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Sherlock needed a distraction.” Kendal hiccuped, sitting up. “That was the only thing I can think of.”

 

“Kendal, you can’t tackle criminals, regardless of how helpless Sherlock looks.”

 

“I had a plan-“ Sherlock tried to say.

 

“You could have died,” John said, louder, placing his hands on Kendal’s shoulders. “You can’t do that, Kendal. I can’t lose you, alright?”

 

Kendal opened her mouth like she wanted to reply, but decided against it. Instead, she nodded her head.

 

“Alright. I’ll take you home.” John said, placing an arm around Kendal’s shoulders before looking up at Sherlock. “Go talk to Lestrade. We’ll see you tonight.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head and watched John leave with Kendal. It wasn’t until they left when he saw them leave that he remembered what Kendal said.

 

_“John loves you.”_

 

Should he read into that? Kendal had been held at gunpoint when she said it, so there was every chance that it was borne of hysteria.

 

Speaking of hysteria, shouldn’t he have other things on his mind? If there was someone out there who believed that Moriarity was still alive, surely some part of him, some part of that entity that he had destroyed, still lived on.

  
But somehow, all he could think of was Kendal saying that John loved him, about how his life would change if she were correct.

 

oOo

 

Kendal was asleep on the sofa when Sherlock came home. John was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea.

 

“Evening,” He said.

 

“How was it?” John asked. “And keep your voice down, if you would.”

 

“Lestrade thinks we should give Kendal a medal.”

 

“Does he?”

 

“He expressed it a few times, anyway.” Sherlock said. “It was a brave thing that she did.”

 

“She shouldn’t have done it,” John said, glancing over at the sofa.

 

“I wouldn’t have let him hurt her,” Sherlock said. “I had a plan, you know that.”

 

“She had a gun to her head-“

 

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her. I wouldn’t let anything hurt something so dear to you.”

 

John looked up at Sherlock, then over at Kendal.

 

“Kendal said something,” Sherlock said after a moment. “When the man had the gun to her head.”

 

“What did she say?” He asked.

 

“She said ‘John loves you.’ To me.”

 

John looked up from his tea.

 

“She was rather hysterical, so there’s every chance that it was just gibberish that I misheard-“

 

“You never mishear anything.” John said.

 

Sherlock looked at his own reflection in his tea. “Well, there’s also the possibility that she-“

 

“Sherlock, look at me.”

 

Sherlock was surprised at how difficult it was to lift his gaze to John, who was standing, now.

 

“She didn’t misspeak. Kendal- well, I think I should tell you. I think I should have told you sooner.”

 

John clenched his fists at his sides.

 

“Sherlock, I realize- well, I realize now why I- why losing you two years ago was so hard for me. I know- I know you’re married to your work, but I- I’ve wanted things from you, I’ve wanted things for you, for you from me, ever since we met. I don’t know how I managed to avoid it for so long, and now- I feel like I’m getting to you too late, I feel like-“

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“No,” He said.

 

“I know,” John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, Kendal and I- Kendal and I can go. We can find a flat somewhere else, I’ll still-“

 

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean ‘no’ like that.” Sherlock clarified. John looked confused. “I meant it’s not too late.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean- I mean that if Kendal was right, if Kendal wasn’t delirious, that- that you can tell me. You can tell me yourself.”

 

John shook his head and reached out, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, a pained smile on his face.

 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” He said. “And that’s both the long and short of it. I’ve loved you since I met you.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head. “John.” He said. “This changes things.”

 

John nodded his head and took his hands away, placing them back at his sides.

 

“I know.” He said defeatedly.

 

“And you said you wanted things from me. I’ve certainly never been in a romantic relationship with anyone like you, so there’s every possibility that I won’t be able to fulfill your desires immediately, but you’re a patient man, to be sure-“

 

“Wait, what?” John asked, looking back at Sherlock.

 

“Well, you love me. Shouldn’t two people in love be in a romantic relationship? Isn’t that how these things work?”

 

“You- wait, you- and- Sherlock, what?”

 

“What is it that you don’t understand?”

 

“You didn’t- you can’t- you feel the same?”

 

“Of course I do.” Sherlock answered. “Goodness, I thought you knew, I thought it was implied.”

 

“It was certainly not implied.” John said. “When did you decide this?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I can’t pinpoint an exact moment. It began to get annoying when Moriarity took me to the rooftop and threatened to kill you, but I think it began before then.”

 

“You love me?” John asked hoarsely.

 

Sherlock nodded his head. “How could I not?” He wondered, a small smile on his lips. “You- the most capable and kind doctor in the world. You should invent a career for yourself- you’re truly the only one in the world.”

 

John laughed. “You are insufferable. You are insufferable and wonderful and brilliant and I am madly in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Sherlock smiled. John reached out his hand.

 

“And Kendal knew,” He said, shaking his head. “We’re taking her shopping tomorrow. Or to the movies. Or to a musical on the West End, whatever she wants. Maybe even all three.”

 

“Where would we be without her?” Sherlock wondered, glancing over at the sofa.

 

John raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips. “Same as we were. Just a little more secretive.”

 

“Will she be alright?” Sherlock asked.

 

John’s lips paused on Sherlock’s ring finger. “She will be,” He said after a moment. “We’ll just have to take a little extra care of her.”

 

“We can do that.”

 

“I know.” John said. “We will together.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head.

 

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a fic I started when a I was thirteen years old. I did some tweaking to the story and decided that maybe I wanted to release it into the world again. That being said, the title will never make sense. Neither demons nor Nutella will be relevant to the story, but I kept it for the sake of respecting my thirteen-year-old self. The plot will wind up following John and Kendal and, sooner rather than later, Sherlock as they go about their lives, so I would be more than happy to take requests for what you would like to read, like “ooh, everyone should go ice-skating!” or “delete this! I hate it!” Thank you for reading, leave a Kudo or a comment if you feel so moved.


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